


I Love Myself (I Want You To Love Me)

by Passionfruit (Appleskin)



Series: I Touch Myself [1]
Category: Static Shock
Genre: BDSM themes, Bottom Virgil, Dom/sub Undertones, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Richie, slightly incoherent late night porn, the Virgil in this fic is just a figment of Richie's imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Appleskin/pseuds/Passionfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie unwinds after a long patrol</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love Myself (I Want You To Love Me)

The one good thing about late night patrols, Richie thinks, is that there’s always hot water when he gets home.

His bruises have bruises, and he has what might actually be a minor electrical burn on his bicep from where he and Static slammed into each other when Onyx decided to toss them around like ragdolls. The hot water pounding down on his shoulders and the back of his neck is like heaven, and he lets himself just chill for a minute. There’s no timer, he’s got a couple hours before his dad will wake up for work. And anyway his parents are heavy sleepers and the walls in his house are thick and well-insulated. He can hog all the post-patrol shower time he wants.

It had been a good enough night. Gear and Static had done the usual rounds, chased Carmen Dillo away from a group of late-night movie-goers with deep-looking pockets, traded punches with Puff and Onyx, and put Kangor’s ass in jail for the fifteenth freaking time. Hotstreak hadn’t busted out of prison since the last time they’d booked him, so he was absent from their roster that night, and the Meta-Breed had been suspiciously quiet for the past few days, which of course meant that Ebon was plotting something nefarious that Richie and Virgil would no doubt have to take care of soon.

Still, even “quiet” nights are rough, and Richie is feeling it in the aching stiffness down his back and thighs, the sore tension where he probably pulled a muscle in his right arm, the throb of bruises all over his… everything.

More than that, though, he’s all keyed up. At least when some real trouble is going down he ends up exhausted enough to crash as soon as he gets home. Nights like tonight, though, he ends up frustrated and buzzing with energy, pumped up with adrenalin but deprived of an outlet. It’s enough to make him consider running laps, hitting the pavement and picking a direction and going until the tingly sparking in his limbs fucks off.

It feels to amazing to be clean though, sloughing off the sweat and dirt and grimy dumpster grossness he’s acquired over the course of the night, slowly walking his fingers over the aches and pains of a job well done, categorizing as he goes. He rubs soothing circles into the skin around his burn, reassured that it probably won’t scar and paradoxically disappointed at the same time. That would be a really sweet battle wound, even if it was technically the result friendly fire.

The spot almost feels like the point of an electrical plug, though. Richie has crackles of lightning-sharp adrenaline zapping through his veins, making his heart and and mind both race long after he should have been able to calm down, keeping him suspended in a feeling of _do something_ despite his attempts to convince himself to relax, so with an air of grudging acceptance he rinses the rest of the shampoo out of his hair and glares down at his dick.

Adrenaline boners, Richie had decided early on in the superhero gig, are _obnoxious._ Especially when all he wants to do was climb into bed after a long night of playing catch with Dakota’s resident mutated assholes and _sleep._ Deep sleep. The glorious sleep of the tired and victorious. For like at least a good solid eight hours.

He had also learned very quickly that ignoring them didn’t help. His brain is swimming in a cocktail of neurochemicals shouting _go go go_ and if he doesn’t do something to make those chemicals quit then they’ll just marinate in his head like Brain Sex Stew and down that path lay naught but suffering and madness and awkward parental encounters. He knows. He’s tried.

He thinks he’s probably the only teenage boy in history who has ever been this reluctant to jerk off.

But it’s, well. It’s not really the jerking off itself that’s the problem. Rub one out real quick, let the afterglow help him tip off into dreamland. On a particularly stressful night maybe take his time, let it build and deepen and get sweeter the longer he waits for it, until it’s less like a wave and more like a tsunami crashing down on him, wiping away everything but the feeling of _mmhn yes so good._ Sure, that’s cool. That’s great. Everything about the act itself is totally great.

It’s just… the more mental part of it that he has some trouble with, sometimes.

Just considering it has a voice piping up in the back of his head, one that sounds nauseatingly like his dad’s and is spitting out the same kind of awful things he would say, if he knew what his son was about to do. Even as a figment of his dangerously overclocked imagination, it still stings like salt in a wound (cheap vodka in a wound, battery acid in a wound) but Richie is getting better at compartmentalizing, and he’s sore and tired and too damn frustrated for that crap right now, so he closes his eyes for a minute, tipping his head under the water, and pretends that voice is a new Bang Baby. One with the power to mimic people, maybe, or one that can make you relive awful memories. A little viciously, he imagines hurling zap cap after zap cap at it, watching it twitch and jerk under the pulses of electricity before finally passing out, tazed into unconsciousness and mercifully fucking _silent._

For right now, at least, Richie refuses to feel guilty about this.

Virgil has jerked off to Daisy and Frieda before, Richie knows, because Virgil likes to overshare a lot. Even after he stopped having a crush on Freida, he still thinks about her sometimes. It’s something teenage guys do when they have attractive friends. It’s not a big deal. Virgil wants to fuck them, so he thinks about fucking them. That’s all this is. It’s not-- it isn’t weird or wrong or gross. It’s _not._ It’s not that big of a deal.

Besides, Richie thinks, reaching down to give himself a few lazy strokes. Even if he were straight, he isn’t _blind._ Virgil doesn’t have the common decency to be unattractive, or even at least _average,_ which means that he’s just gonna have to deal with people adding him to their spank bank. And between school and superheroing and spending most of his free time in the other boy’s bedroom, Richie has more than enough to work with when it comes to Virgil-oriented spank bank material.

Like the way he grinds his teeth when he’s sleeping, which is really weirdly sexy. Or the dimples on either side of his spine, right above the curve of his ass, that Richie got a glimpse of on accident one night during a sleepover. Or his _mouth,_ goddamn, that boy has the kind of mouth you see in porn. Full, soft lips, almost a natural pout, and Richie can admit that he sometimes really wants to see them wrapped around his cock.

Virgil would be bad at it, at first. Clumsy and unsure and hesitant. Smart enough to keep his teeth out of the way, but too much spit and not enough tongue and Richie could cup the back of his head, grip a fist full of dreadlocks just tight enough to pull. Could talk him through it, tell him how good he looks on his knees, how Richie has spent way too much time thinking about fucking that sweet mouth. About holding Virgil down and making him choke on it.

Virgil, panting for breath, that pornstar mouth hanging slack and open while he gasps and heaves, lips swollen and shiny-slick with drool and precum. His beautiful brown eyes glassy and watering, tears clinging to his eyelashes and spilling over his cheeks. Richie would wipe them away gently, press a kiss to his cheek, give him just enough of a break that his breath was starting to even out.

Then he’d say “Deep breath, V,” grab Virgil’s jaw with one hand, grip his dreads with the other to tilt his head back, and slide back into that wet heat. Virgil would gag and cough, and the feeling of his throat working around his dick would have Richie pushing closer, careful but relentless, until Virgil’s nose was buried in his happy trail and more sweet silver tears were leaking out of those pretty eyes (almost red, sometimes, in the right light. So brown they’re maroon, mahogany, russet, copper, and Richie wants to see them heavy-lidded and glazed over and far away, broken open like geodes and dripping helpless, overwhelmed tears)

Virgil’s tongue lolling out of his sore, abused mouth, showing off the cum clinging to it, dripping down his chin and smeared across his lips. Virgil on his knees with his pretty mouth ruined and his eyes watering and his chest heaving while he tries to get his breath back. Virgil’s skin fever-hot when Richie cups his cheeks, croons out how well he did, how good he was, what a pretty picture he makes when he’s like this.

Virgil’s eyes closing in exhausted relief, his body relaxing as he finally manages to calm his breathing. Virgil swallowing thickly once, twice, and then licking the cum off his own lips.

Virgil not having to fight, not having to be the superhero, not having to get it right on his first try because if he screws up his secret’s out or worse, someone might get hurt, might die. Virgil loose-limbed and flushed with arousal, waiting, relaxed, obedient.

Richie would take his time, work him over slowly, press him down into the mattress and rub his shoulders and back and legs and that gorgeous ass until all the muscles had let go of their knots and V was a puddle of released tension whining into his pillow while Richie fingered him open, fucking him gently on three fingers until his hole was twitching and he was rutting against the bed, needy and close. Then he would roll Virgil over onto his back and do the same thing, pulling at his nipples, pressing his thumbs into the long lines of his inner thighs to ease his legs open, stroking teasing fingers over his aching cock to make him twitch and grunt.

Virgil in his lap, riding him in front of a mirror so Richie can see him from both sides, his ass and dick both bouncing while he grinds himself down on Richie’s shaft, achingly tight and hot around him, keening low and broken in his throat at the _stretch_. Richie is a virgin too, sure, but he’s at least played with himself before, knows what to expect, how intense it can be. Virgil would be so overwhelmed, so amazed at how good it can feel, that untouched ass forced open for a cock.

Virgil at the gas station, groaning into Richie’s shoulder while his hips move in aborted little thrusts -- all he _can_ move, wrapped up snug in the same metal cords Richie uses for the zap traps, pinned down and begging for it while Richie strokes and sucks and teases his dick until he’s throwing his head back to moan, coming all over himself, his chest, his stomach, such a pretty mess.

Virgil, Virgil, _Virgil,_ bent over the couch at their HQ, on all fours on his bedroom floor, on his back while Richie rides him. Blindfolded and tied up, dripping with water so he can’t make a spark, can’t run off, can’t be stubborn and headstrong and self-sacrificial. Virgil having to shut up _listen to him_ for once, letting Richie take the lead, take care of him, make him feel _so good_.

Virgil with a dozen homemade vibrating toys taped and tucked all over him, all his sensitive spots, everywhere he likes to be touched, and Richie would sit next to him and stroke his hair and tell him how gorgeous he looks, how his moans sound like music, how sexy and clever and brave and kind, how Richie feels about him.

Virgil curled up in his arms after, fucked-out and dazed and maybe even shaking a little bit if Richie pushed him far enough. Virgil’s head cradled on his shoulder, not trying to be the tough guy for once, just letting himself be held and touched and cherished. Virgil’s breath a gentle puff of air against Richie’s neck, his voice hoarse and raw from all the moaning (begging, screaming) he’s done that night, punctuating his words with a tired, sloppy kiss against the nearest patch of skin before he sighs and settles in to sleep, cared-for and content.

 _“I love you too.”_  
  
Richie bites his fist to stifle a groan and everything goes beautifully, blindingly, electroshock white.

It takes a long, hazy minute of leaning slumped against the steam-warmed tiles before he can gather his thoughts enough to stand up straight on legs that want to shake a little. He turns toward the heated downpour, letting the water wash away the evidence of what he just did. Then he turns off the faucet, dries himself off, and crawls into bed without bothering to put on pajamas.

There’s a tight, depressive, downward spiral with the name Richey Foley stamped on it in bold font, but his afterglow is a slow, deep burn throughout his whole body, and the adrenaline that had left him so tightly-strung is finally easing away, leaving him feeling scrubbed-clean and shiny and kinda like he’s made out of half-cooked spaghetti. Raincheck, Richie decides, and pulls the covers around himself. He can hate himself tomorrow. It’s a Sunday, so unless Ebon and his crew decide to do something obnoxious he should have all the time in the world to lay around feeling guilty and ashamed and like a horrible friend.

Right now he just feels _good_ , and well-worked, and tired, and Richie burrows deeper under the covers and thinks about Virgil (always Virgil, Virgil, Virgil) in bed with him, probably demanding to be the big spoon like it’s some kind of statement of his super macho manliness. Virgil slipping in through his window and shucking off his costume, climbing into bed and curling up around him, the scratchy drag of his dreads against Richie’s bare back, the soft press of his lips as they share a goodnight kiss. The scent of his bodywash and coconut oil, the barely-there hum of the electric current Richie can sometimes feel just on top of his skin. The callouses on his fingertips. The way he grinds his teeth.

 _Virgil,_ Richie thinks, and finally falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the porn I promised y'all on tumblr but that porn ended up having way too much plot and will be posted as soon as its done, so in the meantime here have this as a peace offering.
> 
> If you've got a request send it my way http://thisisallthehattersfault.tumblr.com/


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